An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

by three o’clock to-day the body of the girl, concerning

whom nothing is known here, other than that she came

here with her companion, was brought up and turned

over to the authorities. That of the man has not yet

been found. The water in the immediate vicinity of the

accident in some places being over thirty feet deep, it is

not certain whether the trolling and dredging will yield

the other body or not. In the case of a similar accident

which took place here some fifteen years ago, neither

body was ever recovered.

To the lining of the small jacket which the girl wore was

sewed the tag of a Pittsfield dealer. Also in her shoe

lining was stamped the name of Jacobs of this same

city. But other than these there was no evidence as to

her identity. It is assumed by the authorities here that if

she carried a bag of any kind it lies at the bottom of the

lake.

The man is recalled as being tall, dark, about thirty-five

years of age, and wore a light green suit and straw hat

with a white and blue band. The girl appears to be not

more than twenty-five, five feet five inches tall, and

weighs 130 pounds. She wore her hair, which was long

and dark brown, in braids about her forehead. On her

left middle finger is a small gold ring with an amethyst

setting. The police of Pittsfield and other cities in this

vicinity have been notified, but as yet no word as to her

identity has been received.

This item, commonplace enough in the usual grist of

summer accidents, interested Clyde only slightly. It seemed

odd, of course, that a girl and a man should arrive at a

small lake anywhere, and setting forth in a small boat in

broad daylight thus lose their lives. Also it was odd that

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afterwards no one should be able to identify either of them.

And yet here it was. The man had disappeared for good.

He threw the paper down, little concerned at first, and

turned to other things—the problem that was confronting

him really—how he was to do. But later—and because of

that, and as he was putting out the light before getting into

bed, and still thinking of the complicated problem which his

own life here presented, he was struck by the thought (what

devil’s whisper?—what evil hint of an evil spirit?)—

supposing that he and Roberta—no, say he and Sondra—

(no, Sondra could swim so well, and so could he)—he and

Roberta were in a small boat somewhere and it should

capsize at the very time, say, of this dreadful complication

which was so harassing him? What an escape? What a

relief from a gigantic and by now really destroying problem!

On the other hand—hold—not so fast!—for could a man

even think of such a solution in connection with so difficult a

problem as his without committing a crime in his heart, really

—a horrible, terrible crime? He must not even think of such

a thing. It was wrong—wrong—terribly wrong. And yet,

supposing,—by accident, of course—such a thing as this

did occur? That would be the end, then, wouldn’t it, of all

his troubles in connection with Roberta? No more terror as

to her—no more fear and heartache even as to Sondra. A

noiseless, pathless, quarrelless solution of all his present

difficulties, and only joy before him forever. Just an

accidental, unpremeditated drowning—and then the

glorious future which would be his!

But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with

Roberta at this time—(why was it that his mind persisted in

identifying her with it?) was terrible, and he must not, he

must not, allow such a thought to enter his mind. Never,

never, never! He must not. It was horrible! Terrible! A

thought of murder, no less! Murder?!!! Yet so wrought up

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had he been, and still was, by the letter which Roberta had

written him, as contrasted with the one from Sondra—so

delightful and enticing was the picture of her life and his as

she now described it, that he could not for the life of him

quite expel that other and seemingly easy and so natural a

solution of all his problem—if only such an accident could

occur to him and Roberta. For after all he was not planning

any crime, was he? Was he not merely thinking of an

accident that, had it occurred or could it but occur in his

case…. Ah—but that “could it but occur.” There was the

dark and evil thought about which he must not, he must not

think. He MUST NOT. And yet—and yet, … He was an

excellent swimmer and could swim ashore, no doubt—

whatever the distance. Whereas Roberta, as he knew from

swimming with her at one beach and another the previous

summer, could not swim. And then—and then—well and

then, unless he chose to help her, of course….

As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of

his own room between nine-thirty and ten at night, a

strange and disturbing creepiness as to flesh and hair and

finger-tips assailed him. The wonder and the horror of such

a thought! And presented to him by this paper in this way.

Wasn’t that strange? Besides, up in that lake country to

which he was now going to Sondra, were many, many

lakes about everywhere—were there not? Scores up there

where Sondra was. Or so she had said. And Roberta loved

the out-of-doors and the water so—although she could not

swim—could not swim—could not swim—could not swim.

And they or at least he was going where lakes were, or they

might, might they not—and if not, why not? since both had

talked of some Fourth of July resort in their planning, their

final departure—he and Roberta.

But, no! no! The mere thought of an accident such as that

in connection with her, however much he might wish to be

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rid of her—was sinful, dark and terrible! He must not let his

mind run on any such things for even a moment. It was too

wrong—too vile—too terrible! Oh, dreadful thought! To think

it should have come to him! And at this time of all times—

when she was demanding that he go away with her!

Death!

Murder!

The murder of Roberta!

But to escape her of course—this unreasonable,

unshakable, unchangeable demand of hers! Already he

was quite cold, quite damp—with the mere thought of it.

And now—when—when—! But he must not think of that!

The death of that unborn child, too!!

But how could any one even think of doing any such thing

with calculation—deliberately? And yet—many people were

drowned like that—boys and girls—men and women—here

and there—everywhere the world over in the summer time.

To be sure, he would not want anything like that to happen

to Roberta. And especially at this time. He was not that kind

of a person, whatever else he was. He was not. He was

not. He was not. The mere thought now caused a damp

perspiration to form on his hands and face. He was not that

kind of a person. Decent, sane people did not think of such

things. And so he would not either—from this hour on.

In a tremulous state of dissatisfaction with himself—that any

such grisly thought should have dared to obtrude itself upon

him in this way—he got up and lit the lamp—re-read this

disconcerting item in as cold and reprobative way as he

could achieve, feeling that in so doing he was putting

anything at which it hinted far from him once and for all.

Then, having done so, he dressed and went out of the

house for a walk—up Wykeagy Avenue, along Central

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Avenue, out Oak, and then back on Spruce and to Central

again—feeling that he was walking away from the

insinuating thought or suggestion that had so troubled him

up to now. And after a time, feeling better, freer, more

natural, more human, as he so much wished to feel—he

returned to his room, once more to sleep, with the feeling

that he had actually succeeded in eliminating completely a

most insidious and horrible visitation. He must never think

of it again! He must never think of it again. He must never,

never, never think of it—never.

And then falling into a nervous, feverish doze soon

thereafter, he found himself dreaming of a savage black

dog that was trying to bite him. Having escaped from the

fangs of the creature by waking in terror, he once more fell

asleep. But now he was in some very strange and gloomy

place, a wood or a cave or narrow canyon between deep

hills, from which a path, fairly promising at first, seemed to

lead. But soon the path, as he progressed along it, became

narrower and narrower and darker, and finally disappeared